This chapter is an extended version of drabble I wrote for the weekly E/O drabble challenge on . Some slight Game of Thrones season three spoilers.
Oh and Charlie and the boys are on a little foray beyond the bunker this time.
Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading and commenting. It's a pleasure to hear from you all
A Moment with My Brother
Chapter 10 - Fire-Drake
"Well holy hell on a medieval handcart...who'd have credited they're actually real?"
Dean gasps and I watch as he flaps his hand in spectacular and amazed disbelief toward the mouth of the cave, some scant metres from our hastily adopted and very precarious refuge, indicating with undisguised joy, the three foot tall bundle of incendiary delight, snorting and belching fire irritably as it attempts to gently flambe us all.
"I know I've seen more than my fair share of otherworldly crap so perhaps I should have believed but I always just thought they were...you know... Moon-Door-ish-Tolkein-isms!"
I tut indulgently and fix him with a sooty (dark, sultry, supermodel-101) look of mock-disapproval and he has the grace to blush and squirm just a little.
"Yeah, well whatever, but all the same, Dean..."
Ah ha...Sam is less thrilled with our Darwinian discovery. You can tell from the piss and vinegar tone to his slightly hoarse (it's the smoke) voice and the way he's batting gingerly at the smoldering ruin that is the leg of his second-best jeans.
"It might have helped if you hadn't called him 'Sparky' and asked for your burger done extra crispy..."
He growls over the whooshing flame-throw-ery noise the feisty little beast is making, his long-suffering hazel eyes enhanced beautifully with flashes of crimson flame.
But Dean is oblivious to his brother's snark, he's just girlishly giddy at our funky supernatural discovery.
"An actual...honest-to-god...freaking...firedrake..."
Dean giggles, laughter lighting up his impossibly green eyes as he unconsciously blows on his singed fingers, fruitlessly trying to cool the burn that, no doubt, throbs there as we all hunker defensively against the rear wall of the cave.
"Yup, pretty damn amazing, huh..."
I agree, smiling at the adorably childish wonder in his voice as I twist my body round, avoiding 'Sparky's' continued nuggets of hawked-up napalm and shuffle closer to get a better look at his burnt hand.
And thus it's as I pass by my younger, and considerably less-enthused sibling, I hear Sam mutter something that sounds like...
"...Tolkein Twaddle..."
OMG...He wouldn't dare, would he?
I stare him down (and it's surprisingly easier than I thought. He looks tough but give him a full on girl-face and he's soon put in his place.)
"Really, Sam?"
I ramp it up to the full 'Oh-you-are-in-deep-doodoo' look, both barrels, head on and he crumbles and even I'm a bit amazed to see how meekly he can press that huge great slab of a man that he is, into the protective rock face in the face of my feminine ire.
Way to go Charlie B, he might be twice as wide and a good deal taller than ya but he recognizes when he should be afraid and if he is gonna have the audacity to diss such a deity of the fantasy-nerd kingdom...then he should be plenty afraid.
"I should wash your 'righter-of-supernatural-wrongs' mouth out with soap and water for daring to utter such blasphemy."
I frown in full LARP-er royalty outrage at my hand-maiden-number-two's 'Hobbit-y'-heresy, thumping him on the shoulder (the one that's not looking like an over-toasted crumpet) and he gives me his best wide-eyed innocent look...you know the one that has IRS agents weeping with shame, as he gabbles to make amends.
"Sorry, your Highness."
I smile with munificent regality as Dean chimes in again.
"And you know the best bit?"
We shake our collective heads and even Sam has to smile at Dean's obvious pleasure.
"It's only an adolescent, imagine what it'll be able to do when it's fully grown."
"How on earth can you possibly know that?"
Sam muses, irritation at the loss of his pant leg to the fiery little sucker bleeding some of his attention.
Dean leans out slightly from the cover of the granite to look around me and at his flummoxed brother, a look of 'dumb-ass-everyone-knows-this-shit' on his wide-eyed face.
"Daenerys Targaryen, Sammy."
Nothing from Sam though I smile dreamily to match Dean's. She's a perfect, golden-haired, 'Mother of Dragons', 'Commander of the Unsullied' and I'm happy to share our total girl-crushing on her with my big bro.
Dean rolls his eyes at his college-boy sibling's lack of 'Game of Thrones' smarts but graces him with an explanation.
"Daenerys Stormborn, blood of my blood has three dragons, Sammy and if ya'd paid attention to our season three marathon you would have noted that when they were ickle dragon-pups they scales were golden-orangey...like young 'Sparky' here."
We all turn simultaneously toward the hissing, seething, pressure-cooker of a fire-drake that is clawing at the cave opening, determined to come join us to complete our char-broiling.
The precocious winged-serpent is indeed a pretty blend of light ochre, tawny bronze and vivid gold and the sheen from it's shimmering scales dazzle us as we contemplate it's wondrous countenance.
"So it won't stay orange?"
Sam's interest has been sparked now and Dean shakes his head sagely as I reach for his blistered hand.
"Nope...it'll go darker colored...Red's and browns..."
He pauses, hissing softly like a tiny version of the fire-drake as I examine his burns. The damage is worse than I thought and as I turn his hand, palm-up, he sucks in his breath again.
"Look..."
Sam whispers, catching each of our eye in turn and then jutting his chin toward the ferocious fire-dragon.
Only now he's not so ferocious.
In fact, now he's...
Sorta...
Purring!
Yeah, you heard me. The flame-puking little ball of venom has his scaly head tilted on one side like a curious little pug-puppy and he's staring intently at Dean.
"What happened?"
Dean says conspiratorially and Sam shrugs.
"Dunno, but whatever it was we need it to keep happening."
Dean's nods enthusiastically and the motion jiggles his wounded hand and he hisses softly again...
And our baby-boy, 'Sparky', hops happily on his pterodactyl-taloned toes and chirrups...yes, I did say chirrups, in return.
"Do it again, Dean."
I whisper, as 'Sparky, head-tilts frantically, his little snout clacking open and closed like he's trying to speak.
"Do...what?"
Dean questions (somewhat stupidly) as he, and we, continue the mexican stand off.
"Duh!"
He glances at me and I roll my eyes.
"Hiss..."
I command but there's no recognition in his golden-specked, green peepers.
"Hiss, Dean...Hiss, at the pretty dragon!"
And he does.
Soft and more, much more than a little embarrassed, but he man's up and hisses and the now docile fire-drake chirrups in response.
"Awh...he likes you."
I laugh and the boys look at me in disbelief so I sigh.
"It's true. Don't believe me? Try it again."
Dean glances at Sam and he shrugs then nods.
Hiss...
Chirrup, chirrup...
Hiss, hiss...
Chirrup, chirrup, purr...
"That is so cool!"
I smile as 'Sparky' hops from foot to foot and Dean, sorta smiles, but looks sheepish.
"He definitely likes ya."
I add and Sam snorts in extravagantly dismissal.
"Don't be ridiculous."
He admonishes but I check him with the patented Bradbury-raised-eyebrow.
"Well you try it then, Tolkein-blasphemer! See if our little oven-roaster bills and coos when you speak dragon-ese."
Sam prevaricates, glances at me then at Dean...and it's the elder one's turn to shrug and shake his head.
So he tries...as we both look on expectantly...coming up with a soft hissing noise much like Dean's...
And 'Sparky' shrieks and spits a flame-thrower load of magma half the length of our cosy cave-like dwelling as we dive for whatever cover we can find.
So, maybe not as much like Dean's as we need it to be then!
"Dean! For god's sake, speak to your baby!"
Sam calls urgently, uncurling only slightly from his protective ball and pointing frantically at the now, once-more, enraged serpent.
And our own personal, 'Mother of Dragons' hisses a soothing lullaby in melodic Uruloki.
snSNsn
So thankfully after a moment or two we are able to peel ourselves from the rough cave wall and cluster bravely behind our fearless dragon whisperer, who is now sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, his, as-surprised-as-ours, eyes held tight to the adopted fire-drakes boot-button black ones.
Hiss, hiss...
Purr...chirp...whistle...purr
"What are ya saying to it?"
Sam whispers, being careful to stay in the shadow of his brother's muscular shoulder (A good place to be Sam and one Dean feels at his most comfortable with) and Dean half turns, disbelief written all over his face.
"How the fuck do I know, Sammy. I ain't Dian Fossey here. I'm totally winging (heehee, winging...Freudian, Deano.) it in case you haven't noticed."
He carries on shushing and soothing and before long 'Sparky' has settled comfortably onto the scorched earth, his head extended through the cave mouth and his responding whistles and toots sounding more and more like true love with each passing chirp.
Then Dean does a stupid, instinctive, courageous, dumb-ass thing and extends his arm (the un-crisped one) and gently scritches at the now-languorous serpent's chin.
snSNsn
And that there, my dear readers, though no one will ever believe us I know, is how we (fair Queen of MoonDoor and her outrageously lanky handmaiden) found ourselves gratefully tiptoeing, well crawling on all fours really but tiptoeing sounds more Hans Christian Anderson, out of a soot-stained cave, past a totally besotted, slightly-smoldering fire-drake and his adopted bad-ass, mommie of dragons, the one and only Dean Fire-Drake Winchester.
Ends
Author's notes
Dian Fossey was a respected American zoologist who undertook an extensive and groundbreaking study of wild gorilla groups over a period of 18 years. She was an 'animal whisperer'.